Meet me at 221B Baker street
by codename.penguin
Summary: What does Sherlock do when John hesitates to accept his offer? An early days story. Implied past sexual violence. AU.
1. The offer

Chapter 1- **The offer**

With a weary sigh, Dr. John Watson, ex-army captain clicked on the message in his Inbox.

**To**: John

**From**: Mike

_Re: Flat share_

_John, everything alright? Sherlock said you never showed. The address is 221B Baker Street. He's expecting you at the same time tonight. He's a good guy if that's what you are worried about._

M

The doctor looked at his watch. It was fifteen minutes till the appointed time, and if he left now he could just keep the visit. Instead, the man continued to sit at his bare desk, as indecision paralysed him.

John would love to move out of this depressing complex for recovering veterans, but he wasn't so keen to share with such an odd bloke. Mr. Holmes was clearly uncontrollable and difficult to read, and what John needed now was the complete opposite to that.

He had thought about the man all day though.

In the five minutes that they talked, Mr. Holmes' precision, serious manner and scientifc mind were appealing but his bold, presumptious attidude were completely ridculous.

John shook his head as he closed his laptop. This wasn't for him.

**TBC**


	2. Nightmares

Chapter 2- **Nightmare**

John knew he was having a nightmare.

It was the same sequence as every night; dust, heat, noise, gunfire. Soon, the screaming would start. A voice would desperately call his name and he would run out, pain would slam into his body and then there would be darkness.

It was indeed with a shock of surprise, when he suddenly found himself transported from the desert back into his cool, dark medical tent in the dead quiet of night. For a moment John looked around in bewilderment, before he was suddenly struck from behind and pushed to the ground.

'Get off me!' John cried, horrified that this particular memory had found itself into his dreams. 'Graham, don't do this! Get off me!'

With a strangled shout, the doctor sat up on the bed in his room in the men's hostel; breathing hard.

It was over.

Eventually, John lay back down with a sob and curled up on his side; arms wrapped tightly around himself. It had been months now since he had been back in England but every night, he returned to the war.

This was too hard; he couldn't go on like this. There was never a person who needed a new start more than he did.

_Please God. Please help me._

In the street below, a tall curly haired man stared at the dark window, deep in thought. He had been just about to walk away in disappointment, when a sudden scream had caught his ear. The sound hadn't repeated itself, but something within him had changed while he listened and waited. His mind made up, he nodded agreeably to a beggar in the street drain, as he pulled his long coat around him with an air of determination, and sat on a bench to wait for morning.

TBC


	3. Take my card

Chapter 3- **Take my card**

_It was him!_

John's eyes widened in equal parts shock and fear as a familiar face, detached itself from the group of already drunk-for-the-morning war veterans, who milled aimlessly around the front of the men's hostel.

'I was about to ask how you are, but I can see with my own eyes that you are not well at all Dr. Watson,' the man announced in a solemn voice of concern, 'May I buy you breakfast?'

John took a quick step back when Sherlock reached out a causal hand to touch his shoulder.

'What?!' the small doctor hissed in an unfriendly voice, 'Are you following me? Just…keep your hands to yourself, thank you very much!'

Obediently Holmes dropped his arm, and stared at him with a contemplative look, causing John to squirm around restlessly in his shoes. Had the tall man with his terrifying powers of observation, suddenly deduced the real cause of all his anxiety?

'Why are you here?' John tried to ask politely this time, instead of barking every other word. The man appeared to be more or less harmless, and the doctor knew academically that there was no need to be so fearful even as his heart rate increased uncomfortably. Not every man he met, had a secret agenda. However, the after effects of his nightmare were still tugging at parts of his mind, where the memory of another 'friend' who hurt him, had been resurrected in stunning clarity. Sherlock couldn't have picked a worse morning to pull this little stunt.

Truly he wasn't ready to be around other people as yet, and John struggled to find some definitive way to rid himself of this tenacious bit of unwanted company.

'I'm here because I need a flat mate,' Sherlock replied meekly, 'and I know you need one too. Are you certain I can't interest you in breakfast? I trust that you are not thinking of drinking your first meal of the day?'

Together, their eyes flickered compassionately towards the knot of broken men, who were most likely on their third or fourth bottle.

'I have to go,' Sherlock announced abruptly, much to John's relief, 'Take my card. There's a restaurant on the back. They will give you whatever you want to eat and I will come talk to you tonight.'

Reflexively John took the card before he realised what he had done.

'Holmes!' he cried out in frustration to the man's retreating back, 'I don't want your card and I don't want to talk to you later! Please don't come here anymore.'

If the man in the long dark coat heard him as he turned into the dingy alley way, he didn't show any sign of it.


	4. Save my life

**Anote**: I always forget to give a timeline. The story of course, is wandering around the first episode, The Study in Pink, but in no particular order. Sorry about the initial confusion folks.

Chapter 4– **Save my life**

John had gone to the restaurant out of sheer desperation. He had to find some way to get rid of his new shadow! The doctor had to admit though; this odd bit of interaction was keeping his mind occupied, which was always a good thing.

The restaurant was one of those artsy bistro type affairs, with a minimalist arrangement and five sophisticated sounding items on the menu. Unfortunately, the prices were just as sophisticated and with some embarrassment, John had been forced to check with the owner to ensure that Sherlock would indeed cover his lunch bill. Angelo, who wished to wait on him, assured him there would be no charge, and insisted on bringing every dish for him to sample.

Soon, John was devouring newly baked bread and homemade butter as if he had never seen food before. Everything was simple, fresh and delicious, and John's jaded tummy celebrated the return to such excellence, after weeks of villainous meals prepared at the hostel.

'Nice to see a friend of Mr. Sherlock's with such a good appetite,' Angelo rumbled amicably as he lit some candles.

John almost choked on a roll, 'He told you that I was his friend?!'

The waiter thought about this for a minute, as the rest of his staff cleaned away plates and brought second helpings.

'He called earlier,' the grizzled man informed him, 'he said you were in trouble and needed help, but had changed your mind.'

Mortified, John sipped at his water. It was a very perceptive summary of the facts but the doctor was a deeply personal man.

'He's a good fellow,' Angelo interjected, 'a little rough around the edges, but that's only because he's alone too much.'

John understood that completely, but sighed in exasperation as the waiter gave him a significant look. Why did everyone think he was so perfect to be the man's flat mate?

'Does he help people a lot?' he asked instead. If Sherlock was a busybody do-gooder, it might explain his stubbornness and this would be reassuring in a way. At least the man's motive for doing all of this would be clear.

Angelo set a huge plate of pasta and shrimp in front of him.

'Does he help people?' his waiter repeated slowly, 'Yes he does and thank God for it.'

'He helped you?' John asked in surprise and curiosity.

'He saved my life sir,' Angelo confessed sombrely as he turned to leave, 'he believed me when no one did. And if you give him chance, he could save you too.'


	5. Can I help? pt1

Chapter 5- **Can I help?** part1

Now when Sherlock's landlady encouraged him to go meet the other man and have some fun at the crime scene, John thought she had been joking.

Slowly, the ex-army doctor limped forward to where Holmes stood waiting behind the yellow tape. Sherlock hadn't seen him as yet, as he had his back to him.

So far, John had been able to gather that the man was a bachelor who didn't work, but spent his days assisting Scotland Yard detectives, and anyone else who had an interesting puzzle that needed solving. More importantly, every single person who said they knew him; Mike, Angelo, Mrs. Hudson, was indebted to him for some small favour or the other. In John's opinion, anyone who could inspire such love and loyalty in three completely different personalities was someone worth taking another look at.

Contrarily, Sherlock hated society with every inch of his Bohemian soul, which made him a tad reclusive. John liked this bit a lot. He wasn't much for talking, and a flat mate who kept to his room and in his own head might actually be perfect.

He coughed softly so as not to startle the man. It gave him no amount of small pleasure to see the look of shock on Sherlock's face.

'John! I beg your pardon… Dr. Watson,' he cried out with a grin that he was trying to keep under control, 'How did you find me?'

'John is fine,' he replied quietly, 'your landlady helped me locate you. I went to see the flat.'

Sherlock looked worried now.

'She didn't let me in,' he reassured, 'she thought all of your junk might put me off. I have been invited tomorrow night to visit.'

'I'm glad…'

…don't get your hopes up,' John interrupted him a bit sharply; 'I said I would come see the flat, and I should have said something instead of ducking you like that yesterday. Look… I've got some problems of my own and I am not making any sense am I? Are you out here helping someone?'

Sherlock took the change of topic in stride.

'Yes.'

'Can I help? I used to be… I am a doctor.'

'The person's dead.'

'Yeah… I figured,' John smiled. Sherlock was a funny chap even without trying. 'I can still help you.'

'Thank you,' Holmes replied in a low tone of surprise, 'not many people…offer me help. You are the first in a very long time.'

The look of wonder and delight on the man's face, caused guilt to poke mercilessly at John's insides.

The doctor groaned. 'Hang on… I have to tell you something. Oh god this is so embarrassing.'

**TBC**


	6. Can I help? pt2

Chapter – **Can I help?** part 2

'There's nothing you cannot tell me,' Sherlock announced with such a ring of passion in his voice that it made John blink.

Sherlock smiled encouragingly, as the doctor shifted from one foot to the next like a man on his way to the gallows. The consulting detective almost put a hand on the man's shoulder to steady him, but fortunately remembered himself in time. John would most likely have jumped out of his skin, if he did that.

'Mrs. Hudson made me bring you one of her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I ate it,' the small man blurted out unexpectedly, 'I'm sorry…I'll buy you a cup of coffee.'

After a shocked moment, Sherlock started to chuckle quietly, 'Forgive me for laughing, John. Very few people can surprise me and that is not what I thought you were going to say, at all. You owe me a sandwich and I will collect.'

'Do you think something's wrong with me?' John asked worriedly. 'I don't know why I am eating so much. I haven't felt this hungry in months.'

'No, I don't think anything is wrong with you,' Sherlock replied with a calculating look that John missed.

Just as John was pondering how easy the conversation flowed between them, a serious looking man strode forth towards them, 'Right, Sherlock I can give you two minutes with the body. Who is this?'

'He's with me!' Sherlock exclaimed excitedly.

Any other man who said that, would have caused John to flinch. However, Sherlock said it like he was showing off the fact that he had received the most up to date computer game for Christmas, and wanted everyone in the neighbourhood to know it.

With a small smile of bemusement, John ducked under the caution tape that the man held up so energetically for him


	7. Kidnapped

Chapter 7- **Kidnapped**

John secreted himself behind a dumpster as he took a moment to catch his bearings. Was he just kidnapped?

This was insane!

So why was he smiling?

John shushed the voice in his head as he forced himself to think. Quickly, he pulled out his mobile to send a text.

_'Sherlock, where are you? I think you are in danger. Watch your six!'-_JW

John breathed in deeply as he waited. He felt as though a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and never had the air smelt so sweet.

Every since his return to London, John had firmly believed that the man he once was had been destroyed. He couldn't practise, he was afraid of everything and everyone; he couldn't even screw up the courage to have sex anymore, if you can imagine that! In short, he was a uselessly blot on the face of society. But in that moment, when the man with the umbrella had so nonchalantly asked him to turn spy, Dr. John Watson suddenly turned up again.

Apparently, he had just needed an opportunity to find himself. With a dizzy sense of pride, he recalled how he had so causally told the stranger to go stuff himself.

Life was wonderful!

**_I am lying on the settee thinking. I am in no danger at present. -_****SH**

Thank goodness.

_I was kidnapped but the creep let me go. Should we phone Lestrade? -_JW

John limped forward heavily towards a nearby busy street, where he caught a glimpse of a taxi row. He needed to get off this leg a bit.

**_ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! I am coming to you! STAY!_**

John had to smile at his concern as he stepped into a cab. He had forgotten how nice it was to have someone to just call. People took little stuff like this for granted way too much.

_No need. I am in a cab and will be there soon. _

John glanced around, pretty sure that he was being followed but not sure what he should do about it. Sherlock's arch enemy already knew about Baker Street.

**_Brilliant. Mrs. H dropped off a plateful of sandwiches that I have no idea what to do with._**

_You eat it. _

**_Not hungry._**

_You should still try and eat._

**_But the crusts are on._**

_Don't be a child. Pull off your crusts._

**_Can't you do it?_**

_Excuse me?! _

**Anote**: Unfortunately, school starts tomorrow and i will be unable to continue with posts everyday :( But I will post during the weekend. There are a lot more ups and downs in store for the boys. Thanks for all the support and do add me to your story alerts for future updates.


	8. Food for thought

**Anote:** This takes place in the restaurant when S and J are on the look out for the bad cabbie. Poor John doesn't understand Sherlock at all.

Chapter 8- **Food for thought**

'Sir?' Angelo rumbled, as he lightly knocked on the restroom door, 'I am coming in.'

Slowly he opened the door and stepped inside. The small man was hunched over one of the wash basins, busy splashing some cold water on his face and neck. No one needed to tell him that John required him to be calm and easy in his movements.

Angelo had been thrilled when John and Sherlock had come in the restaurant for dinner, and he had hurried to wait on them. He and the detective even managed to exchange triumphant grins behind Watson's back.

Things seemed to be going well. The two were chatting animatedly, when suddenly John rose and hobbled away from the table. Sherlock had stood up to follow, but instead sat back down with an uncertain expression.

'Is it the food, doctor?' the big man asked kindly, 'I can make you a fresh dish if you would like.'

John shook his head but otherwise made no comment.

'Is Sherlock vexing you?' Angelo tried again, handing the man a hand towel to dry his face.

John exhaled heavily as he stared at his reflection. 'No, no. Sherlock is… quite wonderful actually; very patient, very kind to me. It's just something he said… I'm not sure.'

And here the doctor turned to face him with a stern expression, 'Is it possible that Sherlock fancies me, you think?'

Angelo could see the question was important, by the way the other man was holding himself so stiffly.

'Mr. Sherlock fancies himself a good smoke, dark chocolate, tailored suits, clean shirts everyday and a complicated mystery to gnaw at,' Angelo rumbled with a twinkle in his eye, 'Can't really speak to anything else he might like.'

John chewed his lip agitatedly at what he considered a deflection, 'I just came to look at the flat. That is all. You don't understand Angelo. I can't handle this. I am not ready to…'

'Have you considered that you might never be ready,' Angelo interrupted him firmly, drawing from his own exotic past experiences, 'and maybe it's better to just get on with living whatever life you've got.'

'JOHN!' Sherlock cried out, in an unmistakable call to arms.

Angelo had to flatten himself against the wall, as the doctor unexpectedly barreled past him like a sprinter, running out into the dark street at Sherlock's side.


	9. Peter Pan

Chapter 9- **Peter Pan**

The doctor knew he was messed up in the head, but he never realised how bad he was until now.

John was pretty sure that when Jesus healed all those crippled people in the Bible, they couldn't think of anything else for days after, but no… not him. He had to be silent and cross, and crammed into the corner of their taxi, as though Sherlock was emitting some sort of noxious poison from his skin.

He should be rejoicing in the fact that he had misplaced his walking cane for close to an hour now, and hadn't known it. Instead, John's mind kept slipping back to that confusing conversation at dinner regarding Sherlock's love life. It was obvious that the detective was gay, and all his friends were in a one sided campaign to throw them together.

It was maddening! How did he get himself wrapped up in this shit?! He wasn't gay!

John glanced across the seat to see what the other man was doing. Sherlock looked completely unperturbed, cocooned in his own little world illuminated by the tiny light coming from the screen of his mobile.

Perhaps he was overreacting a tad.

It didn't really mean anything that Sherlock was somewhat vague as regards if he liked men or women. He said he was married to his work, so maybe he wasn't interested in romance, and hence the fuzzy answer. It was true that some people could become so immersed in their jobs, they had little time or energy for anything else.

All the maybes were pinging around so loudly in his brain, that it was starting to give John both a migraine, and a stomach ache.

The big 'what-if' that still ate at him, was Sherlock's unusually strong interest in having him as a flat mate. He didn't quite know what the detective saw in him that would make him go to all this trouble. All things considered, if Sherlock had any sense, he would walk away in the opposite direction.

With a groan, John covered his face with one hand, as fresh doubts crowded his mind.

He had very much enjoyed running all over London with Sherlock. They had made such a cute pair. Just like Peter Pan and fucking Wendy.

The doctor sat up in surprise, when the cab unexpectedly rolled to a stop in front of the men's hostel.

'You should go,' Sherlock announced in a strained voice, 'before you throw up.'

'What?' John protested feebly. 'I'm fine.'

Sherlock looked up from his phone with a look of scorn. 'Brilliant, then go before I throw up!'

'I said I was fine!' the doctor shouted defensively. 'Where's the next damn clue?!'

John was shocked at his own daring. He couldn't remember the last time he had talked back to anyone! First the shifty bloke with the umbrella and now Sherlock.

'Don't lie to me,' the man scoffed, 'you're not fine! You are shaking so hard, that I can feel it all the way over here!'

**TBC**


	10. The game is on

Chapter 10- **The game is on.**

John swallowed hard. There really was no point trying to hide things from this man.

Finally, the consulting detective switched off his mobile and turned towards him fully, 'John, I have been dragging you all around the city without asking your opinion, but that's only as regards the case. You have a choice in all other matters. Would you like to get some rest or would you like to come back to Baker Street with me, and work the clue?'

It was a simple enough question but yet it wasn't.

As a result, John almost crawled up his spine when Sherlock impatiently leaned across his body to open the car door, 'I can't do this. I can't sit here and watch you fall apart. We'll try again tomorrow or whenever you feel up to it. You have my number? Yes? Excellent! Do have a good night.'

Their driver peered nonchalantly at the two men in his passenger tray. Nothing surprised him anymore.

'What are you going to do now?' John inquired in a low voice as Sherlock sat rigid like a post; staring straight ahead into the blackness in front of him.

It was clear that the detective was upset, but was making a strong effort to keep it under control. Maybe he should go before Sherlock became completely disgusted with him.

Finally, the doctor stepped out the taxi when he realised that the detective wasn't going to answer. A wave of depression washed over the small man, as he looked up at the seedy exterior of his "home".

'John?'

Quickly he ducked his head back into the cab.

'Do I look like him so much?' Sherlock asked sadly.

'Sorry?' John asked with a frown. 'Who?'

'That monster you are always thinking about, whenever you are with me. Do I look like him?'

_How did Sherlock do that?!_

'You know, you would have been burnt for witchcraft in another century.'

Sherlock smiled faintly, 'so I've been told, many times.'

'So…I'll see you tomorrow?' John asked causally, as if he was about to say this all along.

Angelo was right. Maybe he would never be ready for a new start, but that shouldn't stop him from starting. He had prayed to God for a new direction in life, and while this exactly wasn't what John had in mind, he couldn't deny that _anything_ had to be better than the way he was living now! Fear and doubt were killing him, as sure as a poison in his bloodstream.

With surprise, the consulting detective looked across at the hand John was extending towards him.

Recovering himself, Sherlock grasped it firmly, 'Can't wait. We have a criminal to run down. The game is on, Watson!'


	11. The shooter

**Anote**: Thanks to all who are following the story. It gives tremendous support to me as a writer as i slowly type away :)

Chapter 11- **The shooter**

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the inside of the ambulance. He wasn't in shock, but he didn't feel so great either.

Was he really going to swallow that pill? Maybe he _was_ nutters.

'Any sign of the shooter?' he asked Lestrade as he identified the man's footsteps coming towards him.

He opened his eyes just as the Inspector shook his head.

'Well obviously, a kill shot over that distance,' Sherlock mused quietly, 'we are looking for someone with steady hands, most likely someone who has seen recent military service…'

_Wait._

_Military service? _

_He knew someone who had military service._

Sherlock sighed as he closed his eyes again and blocked out the voices around him.

Watson had been on his mind all night so much so, that while he was being goaded by the murderer into taking the pill, for one second, just before the miracle bullet came ripping over his shoulder, Sherlock thought he had heard the doctor call out his name.

Sherlock hoped the small man was alright. He had felt distinctly uneasy dropping him off at the hostel, and he would have much preferred to have him in sight. It was damned peculiar how protective he felt of him.

Well no..., maybe it wasn't.

When you find someone who follows you around and exclaims at your brilliance every five seconds, it tends to make you sit up and take notice.

Sherlock knew most people found his company 'tedious' and he had been astounded that Watson didn't seem to mind his 'peculiarities'. John appeared to be an extremely open minded person, and it was wonderful that something so precious, hadn't been swallowed up by all that he had experienced during the war.

'You were saying?' Lestrade prodded him verbally. 'Just for the record, I really hate when you go off on your own like this.'

Sherlock had also been amazed that even though the doctor had been 'kidnapped' by Mycroft, John had not completely fallen apart. To be held against his will, after all he must have suffered in Afghanistan must have been torturous for him. There was a touch of steel in John that was awe inspiring to behold.

He _must_ have John as his flat mate! Anyone else now, would be a pitiful substitute.

'When I heard that single gun shot,' the inspector rambled on conversationally, 'I thought this was it. I thought you were dead and what's with that mate of yours…the little one you introduced to me earlier? We might have been here sooner if he was more co-operative. Is he one of your druggie friends? He damn near tried to take Anderson's head off.'

Sherlock opened his eyes and slowly rose to his feet, like a man who knew a heavy blow was coming and was unable to move out of the way, 'I'm sorry. Could you elaborate on that last part?'

**TBC**


	12. A life's mission

Chapter 12- **A Life's mission**

Lestrade had the good grace to look sheepish.

'Don't look at me like that,' the Scotland Yard detective snapped impatiently, 'When you took off into the night without a word, I sent some men over to pull your mate out of his place for questioning.'

The detective winced as Sherlock placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

'Go on!'

The Inspector was starting to get worried now. Something wasn't right and he cleared his mind, trying to get the facts out as precisely as Sally told him.

'He refused to come with my officers, and then he decided to take a swing at Anderson. It took about three of the fellows to wrestle him to the floor,' Lestrade recounted unhappily, 'they said he went crazy when Anderson stepped into his rooms at the hostel.'

Sherlock was mumbling frantically under his breath, as he struggled to get his priorities in order. This wasn't happening!

'Please God', he prayed in his mind, 'please, please help me.'

'Lestrade, you moron! Watson's sick. He has PTSD* and who knows what else!' Sherlock yelled out, as he threw off his red shock blanket. 'Give me your keys, I have to go to him. He must be terrified. He'll listen to me. Lestrade, your car keys now!'

'Hang on!' the Inspector shouted agitatedly, as he turned Sherlock around and pointed a way off. 'Calm down! He's right there. There, sitting on the pavement!'

Sherlock gaped in shock as John looked up curiously, and calmly waved his paper cup of coffee at him.

_Was it? _

_Oh yes…_

_Who else could it be?_

_Someone with military training, who knew the particulars of the case and just happened to be here, at the right moment?_

'He quieted down right quick, when we explained that you were missing,' the Inspector revealed, 'it was he that figured out the bit about the pink lady's phone and that's how we found you. It was pretty amazing.'

Reacting on autopilot, Sherlock returned John's wave.

'Should I go over and apologise?' Lestrade said worriedly, 'I didn't know he was sick. Christ, I hope he doesn't sue the Yard.'

Immediately, Sherlock put out a hand to stop the Inspector from moving forward, 'No, I'll take it from here. However, if you or one of your _incompetent_ officers _ever_ touches him again, I will make it my life's mission to kill you all; and that goes double for Anderson.'

Lestrade raised an exasperated eyebrow but said nothing. As he walked away, the Detective Inspector spread out a general order that Watson was to be left in Sherlock's care.

**Anote- Post-traumatic stress disorder** (**PTSD**)* is an anxiety disorder that may develop after a person is exposed to one or more traumatic events, such as sexual assault, serious injury or the threat of death.


	13. The promise

Chapter 13- **The promise**

Slowly and quietly, Sherlock walked up to where the other man sat. John wasn't looking at him directly. This wasn't a particularly good start.

'Can I sit next to you?' the detective begged softy.

John shrugged, and Sherlock more or less collapsed in an untidy but grateful heap, on the pavement. Anxiously, he stared at the top of John's bowed head. What should he say? He wanted to ask John where he had hidden his gun and if he had washed the gunpowder from his fingers. But perhaps this was one of those instances, when it would be best to let the other person speak first.

What _did_ normal people say at a time like this, anyway? Thank you seemed a bit inadequate for what John had done for him.

'Can you ask your friends not to barge into my rooms anymore?' the doctor pleaded in a small voice as he stared down at his shoes, 'I won't make any trouble. Next time Lestrade can just telephone.'

Anew the detective felt like to throttle someone. At this point, anyone from the Yard would do.

Sherlock sucked in a harsh breath, 'They are _not_ my friends! No one is going to do that again. I give you my word. No one will ever touch you without your permission.'

It was good that he was sitting, because the detective was completely flabbergasted when after a few moments, the small man threaded his arm through his and pressed his face into his sleeve.

Awkwardly, Sherlock patted his soft hair.

Under normal circumstances he knew Watson would never reach out for him like this, but the stress of the last couple of hours was beginning to exact a heavy price on the ex-army captain.

In turn, Sherlock slumped against the small man's sturdy shoulder.

John wasn't the only one who was exhausted. Adrenaline continued to course through Sherlock's body in sharp bursts like miniature electric shocks; sapping what little energy he had left. The case had been incredible but Sherlock was thankful that it was over. Now he could eat and sleep, and with John in view where he could him safe; Sherlock's eyes drifted close of their own accord.

Not if he searched through all of London, could he have found a better person to watch his back, and the detective silently resolved to repay the favor in kind; beginning now.

Sherlock looked around and gestured at a passing medic; nimbly catching the blanket that was tossed to him. Carefully, he then draped the bright red cloth lightly across John's back. It was indeed difficult not to break into a mad song and dance, as the small man accepted his touch without flinching.

_HA! _

_Sherlock Holmes-1, the rest of the world-0!_

'Dreadful business; all of this. How come you didn't wait for me?' John complained quietly in a conversationally tone, 'I was looking forward to running down some bad guys tomorrow.'

Sherlock glanced at his watch, 'technically, it is tomorrow.'

He grinned happily, as he felt John shake with silent laughter.

'Were you going to take that damned pill?' the doctor asked.

'Yes.'

John sighed, 'I'm glad you are alright, but you're an idiot.'


	14. Whispers

Chapter 14- **Whispers**

With his fingertips pressed together in his usual thinking posture, Sherlock sat on his armchair and vigilantly guarded the shapeless bundle on the floor, situated in the corner of the sitting room.

It was almost dawn but the detective dared not sleep. He didn't want John to wake up and need something, and not be there to help.

In the meantime, Mrs. Hudson, in her nightgown and bedroom slippers shuffled forward inquisitively to examine the mound of blankets. 'Why don't you pop him into your bed? That doesn't look comfortable.'

Sherlock grinned weakly. He could just imagine John's reaction to something like that.

'The man wanted the floor and I was not about to argue,' he informed her quietly. Sherlock was just grateful, that after all the trauma John had been inadvertently subjected to by Lestrade and his pack of idiot mongrels, the small man had agreed to come to Baker Street at all.

'Oh dear,' she fussed motherly, as the old woman knelt down and smoothed the blankets and tucked in stray edges, 'well bring him for breakfast or lunch, when he wakes.'

'Mrs. Hudson, my wallet is on the table. Take my card,' the detective requested quietly, 'Order some furniture for the spare bedroom and a set of heavy duty locks; one each for the window, the second bedroom and the bathroom doors.'

'The second bedroom?' she asked curiously, 'you are not sharing?'

'No, I don't believe so,' he replied carelessly not offended by Mrs. Hudson's questions.

'Perhaps it's for the best,' she mused, 'you do tend to be particular about the way you like your things laid out.'

'Mrs. Hudson?' Sherlock began again, but a little unsurely this time. His landlady was a strong, compassionate woman, but he began to wonder if he was asking too much from her, 'there might be some loud voices in the middle of the night from now on. You can just ignore that. I'll see what I can do to keep him quiet.'

'Are you planning on arguing already?' she said with a frown, 'that's not how to start a new relationship, Sherlock. I am sure your mother would agree with me.'

'I am sure my mother would,' he replied softly, 'but John has exceedingly bad nightmares.'

'Oh dear; from the war I imagine,' she speculated accurately, 'but is it alright you think, if I come up if that happens? I can make tea.'

Sherlock looked a bit confused, 'of course you may come, but you can go back to sleep. Don't trouble yourself.'

'Oh I don't mind. At my age, seeing two handsome young men in their pyjamas is a treat.'

Sherlock grunted quietly as she walked away, relieved when she finally closed the door behind her. Fortunately, the woman had come during one of John's quiet moments.

It would have been very plausible that the dear lady might have had heart failure, if she had heard the man mumble in his sleep not ten minutes earlier. During the early hours of the morning, in the doctor's more restless moments, terrible fragments of the pain and betrayal he had suffered had fallen from his lips. Tortured whispers that should belong only to God, now belonged to Sherlock.

The detective closed his eyes and slouched in his arm chair. In all the challenges he had ever undertaken in his life, here was one that he could not fail.


	15. Homemaking deficiencies

Chapter 15**-Homemaking deficiencies**

Sherlock was on his third trip between the door, and the low coffee table in front the fireplace, before John stirred. The detective hid a grin as he paid the delivery boy.

Yesterday, the detective had noticed that the doctor had one of those moody appetites; in that he ate when he was calm and starved when he was under stress. So, with an absent minded look so he wouldn't appear to be staring, Sherlock watched gleefully as the small man shuffled to the table at warp speed, and cracked open the nearest take away container of Chinese food.

The detective also hurried forward to unpack a fistful of napkins, and the little packets of soy and hot sauce for the other man to use. Suddenly, Sherlock looked about him in dismay. He hadn't ordered anything to drink!

With a peculiar sense of embarrassment at his homemaking deficiencies, he walked to the kitchen and filled two glasses with tap water.

'I forgot to buy you something to drink,' he murmured,wondering if he shouldn't race downstairs and raid Mrs. Hudson's fridge, 'what do you drink? Do you like beer?'

The doctor shot him a skeptical look, 'I know we are eating Chinese food for breakfast, but water is just fine.'

Sherlock felt his confidence grow exponentially.

He could do this! John appeared to be a simple sort of fellow and would be content with whatever he put in front him.

'But if you see me drinking beer,' John mused meditatively as he crunched his roast chicken, 'be so good as to take it away from me. No need to compound a bad situation with something even worse. Because as you so correctly deduced yesterday, alcoholism…' and here the doctor companionably waved a drumstick in his direction, inviting him to finish the sentence.

'….runs in your family,' Sherlock added without thinking.

'Quite right.'

Sherlock smiled faintly in bemusement. '_Piss off!_,' was what most people said when he used his powers of deduction to dredge out negative aspects about their lives. It was just another way that John was different, as he didn't take these things so personally. But perhaps it was difficult to work up the energy to worry about something as silly as personal appearances, when you nearly died in the desert of another country.

'This is good,' John mumbled between quick, appreciative bites, 'best I've ever had.'

The detective had to agree, as he sank cross legged unto the floor just opposite. Quietly he pulled a pair of chopsticks and following Watson's example, he grabbed a box at random to start his meal.

'How much do I owe you?' the doctor asked.

'Just eat,' the detective encouraged him softly, as he delicately nibbled on a shrimp wanton.

The small man grunted in agreement but then stretched out one arm, and sharply twisted Sherlock's open laptop to face him.

The detective froze in place as if he had been petrified in stone.

'Ah…' John said when he had swallowed up his latest mouthful, '...I see that I have been talking in my sleep again. That explains why you look so stressed.'

The doctor didn't look too concerned that the detective had been trying to secretly research his condition, but Sherlock still tensed for a blow, as John closed the lid down with a sharp click.

'If you really want to learn about PTSD, I will email you some good journal articles,' John remarked calmly as he reached for a fresh box of food. 'There's a lot of pseudo science running around the internet.'

Sherlock actually knew a lot about that disorder, with his experience interviewing witnesses of violent crime for his work. He had been more interested in reading the internet articles concerning sexual assault in the army. However, he noticed that John was giving the topic a wide berth. He was too tired right now to even think about if he should, or should not press the issue in the future.


	16. Bonding

**Anote**: There has been a general request for longer chapters. I guess that means i am doing something right :) Thanks all for the support, and as requested a longer chapter for today.

Chapter 16- **Bonding**

The duo had lapsed into a companionably silence, as they concentrated on demolishing the food sitting between them. However, Sherlock was quickly growing so exhausted, that his vision blurred to the point where he couldn't manipulate his sticks, and he was forced to switch to a plastic spork.

'Are you alright?' John asked sharply in concern, pointing at his breakfast companion's pale face with his chopsticks, 'You don't look right. Hang on, are you wearing the same clothes from yesterday? Have you slept since we got back?'

Sherlock smiled feebly. Was the man trying to take care of him? John was so peculiar. It was therefore with some surprise, when the ex-army captain stood up and pulled him to his feet.

The doctor stared in horror at Sherlock's face. Now that he was a little more awake, the small man suddenly noticed the ugly, dark bruises under the detective's eyes.

'You need to sleep,' John insisted fretfully, pushing him down on to the settee, 'look at you; you are swaying on your feet. A strong gust will topple you over! I swear you don't have a teaspoon of good sense.'

With an angry noise, the doctor whipped off his blanket and proceeded to tuck him in. This wasn't a good idea, as the detective's eyelids proceeded to droop almost immediately.

'No,' Sherlock protested softly,with the last bit of fight he had left. John needed him; how could he sleep now? Painfully he stared into the distance, where a blurry looking figure packed the remaining take away boxes into the empty refrigerator.

John soon returned and sat at the edge of the couch. With a patient look that hinted at an excellent bed side manner, the doctor sighed quietly and then offered him a few sips of water from his cup. 'Sherlock, I know what you are trying to do but you have to take care of yourself too. I won't have you sick.'

'I guess i am complete rubbish at this,' Sherlock admitted humbly with a rueful grin, as he obediently drank his water.

'Not at all,' John answered with a small smile, as he laid a calming hand against his chest, 'you just have to find a better balance, which is something that even as a doctor for the last fifteen years, I still struggle with. Some patients can call to something inside you so strongly, that it takes over your entire life.'

Sherlock nodded in agreement; a little awed by how the man could articulate such intense feelings so clearly.

'Don't leave,' the detective found himself blurting out unexpectedly. 'I want to talk to you later.'

Somewhere in the last five minutes, in an abrupt reversal of roles, Sherlock was becoming increasingly anxious by thoughts of the future, and John was apparently now the brave one.

'I won't,' the doctor reassured him in a firm voice. 'Try and rest. No more talking.'

John looked about him, and pulled a few pillows and cushions from the different chairs scattered about the living room. Soon, he had assembled an improvised couch, right on the floor next to where Sherlock lay. With a gigantic yawn, the doctor slid to the floor and curled up contently in his makeshift bed with the remaining blankets. 'It's quieter here than down at the hostel. Thanks for having me in your flat.'

And between that thought and the next, the smaller man drifted off again.

Sherlock wondered if it had crossed the doctor's mind at all, that he could have easily pulled John down on the couch on top of him. Earlier, Sherlock was shocked that the doctor was so easy around him, but now he smiled in pride; savouring the trust the man had given him.

Gently he picked up a corner of John's blanket and covered an exposed shoulder.

'You are very welcome,' he whispered down at the sleeping man, 'and by the way, thank you for saving my life.'

For that entire day the pattern would repeat itself. Some men bonded over sports, beer and naked girlie photos. Sherlock and John chose to solidify their relationship with near death experiences, sleep and Chinese food.


	17. Dear Sherlock

Special thanks to my beta for polishing up my chapter.

Chapter 17- **Dear Sherlock**

Sherlock wasn't immediately alarmed when he opened his eyes, to find that John was missing.

As their day progressed, the small doctor had become more relaxed, to the point where he snagged Sherlock's laptop to surf the net on the work table. Once, when Sherlock woke up, John was sitting in the window staring down in the street below. Another time, the man was slowly pacing around the room in sock clad feet, listening to music on his phone.

So Sherlock wasn't really worried.

John could be in the bathroom or downstairs helping Mrs. Hudson with something or other. But then, the detective's ever keen eyes alighted on a small note addressed to him, perched on top of a neatly folded pile of familiar looking blankets.

With a sinking feeling of dread, Sherlock leaned over to peer down the edge of the settee. As he suspected, the pile of cushions that had made up the other man's couch was missing, because Sherlock knew from experience, that only people who had or who were about to leave, left notes behind. Indeed, as his eyes darted around the flat, it appeared that the entire sitting room had been spruced up as books were now straight, dirty cups and saucers were whisked out of sight and cushions and pillows put back in the proper place.

For a full minute, Sherlock lay there on his side staring at the note with an evil eye.

Ever since they had met, (all of three days ago), Sherlock had done his best to be supportive and understanding of John's problems. However, Sherlock knew being supportive and understanding were _not_ his area, even on his very best days. Watson hadn't seemed to mind though, when he snapped at him impatiently. Sadly, the small man barely reacted to anything at all. It was like he had turned off his feelings, trying to dull as much emotion as he could.

Sherlock's eyes drifted close as he reviewed the day's events in the flat; searching, weighing, deducing, piecing together John's behavior in the last eighteen hours like flashes on a screen.

Suddenly, the detective's mind narrowed in on the instant, when he had offered the ex-army captain a fresh towel and a set of clean clothes for him to take a shower. It was the one moment during the entire day, when John appeared to lapse back into his nervous habit of withdrawal.

Sherlock understood why the doctor reacted that way, but that didn't mean he was alright with it. After a while, John had accepted the clothes and towels, but the way he hunched over into a protective ball as he unconsciously hugged himself, had made Sherlock's stomach tie into knots. The idea that the small doctor still felt that he was in some danger of being assaulted by Sherlock, made the detective feel physically ill.

With a deep breath, Sherlock reached over and opened the letter with an impatient flick of his long fingers. In his haste and anxiety to understand, his eyes skipped over some of the words, and he was forced to re-read over certain sentences. All too soon, the full weight of the message became clear to him, and in a rare moment of clumsiness, the slender man rolled off the settee and landed on the floor with a bone jarring thud.

_Ow, pain. Ignore the pain. Stupid transport._

'MRS. HUDSON!' Sherlock yelled at the top of his lungs, as he scrambled to his feet, cursing softly as he massaged the affected area, 'MRS. HUDSON!'

Almost immediately, the motherly woman ascended the stairs with a solemn expression. She had a fair idea of why he was yelling.

'How could you let him leave?!' Sherlock shouted at her accusingly, as he bounded around the flat, trying to comb his bushy hair and gargle with some mouth wash, all at the same time.

'A woman my age doesn't want to be charged with kidnapping,' she replied calmly.

Sherlock gave her a dirty look, as he thrust the note into her outstretched hand.

_"Sherlock,_

_Do not entertain for one second that I have written this letter because I am afraid to face you. Put that thought far from your mind._

_I write because I fear that if your eyes were open; if you were speaking to me in that way that you do, as if I was a normal person whole and able, I wouldn't be able to go through with this._

_I know without saying the words to you, that you have deduced all that has gone in my recent past (evidence is further provided by your browser search history) and even though it is horrible, your courage does not falter, as so many others have._

_I feel brave as I write this because you are so brave. I admire your strength and humanity more than it is possible to say in words._

_Last night, when you allowed me to share in your work something amazing happened to me. For the first time in many months, my mind was clear and focused. I am filled with a nervous kind of energy, wondering if this can be repeated. Once again, I feel that all things maybe possible. You have given me back hope._

_I bitterly regret now that I didn't take my recovery more seriously. It would be generous to say that I attended one out of every three of my therapy sessions. The fact of the matter Sherlock, is that I am not well._

_I know you __know__ all __of__ this, and I know you want to help but I do not believe you fully understand this choice. You've never seen me at my worse Sherlock, and I pray you never do. I don't want you to ever look at me with disdain and pity. _

_Sherlock, I have bookmarked some articles for you to read. I wish for you to study them and so come to understand and accept what I say to you now. At this present moment, I am not fit to be anyone's flat mate. Perhaps in a few months, if I attend to what my doctor says and if I am very lucky. __It's not fair for someone like you, who is so full of life and colour to drag around a broken and faded man like myself._

_But till then, I wish you to find someone to share the rent with. __Take care of yourself,__don't work yourself up over __me and don't swear! __Mrs. Hudson__ is right downstairs and it will upset her. When you quiet down, you will acknowledge that this is for the best. I know I promised I wouldn't leave, please forgive me._

_Call me in any need._

_I will come._

_John._

_PS. I used money from your wallet and made some shopping for you. Why don't you have any food in your cupboards?_

_PPS. Are you trying to kill yourself? Fresh milk always goes in the refrigerator!_

Mrs. Hudson placed a hand over her heart, trying to catch her breath. Their new friend had a beautiful way with words if nothing else. All the quiet ones like John were.

As she carefully re-read the note again, tears blurred her vision at John's selfless decision, to free Sherlock from the heavy obligation he had undertaken.

The small doctor hadn't said anything when he kissed her goodbye in the hall before he left, but with a woman's instinct, she could tell he was struggling with some great emotion. When she pushed a brown paper bag with some scones and fresh fruit in his hand, the man had turned and fled out into the street, as if being pursued by the devil himself.

'Right!' Sherlock ran out of the bathroom, startling her thoughts, 'if John comes back, keep him here and text me! Trap him into watching one of those programmes on the telly you are so obsessed with.'

The landlady looked up with a worried expression as her tenant and lifelong friend, tightened his scarf so haphazardly around his neck that he almost cut off his air supply.

'Where are you going?' Mrs. Hudson asked.

'To get him back obviously,' Sherlock snapped, as he gently picked her up and moved her to one side, 'This isn't just about paying the rent!'

'Sherlock,' she cried sternly, as she moved to stand infront the door, 'you must not go!'

The detective stopped dead in mid step at the unexpected words.

She gave him a despairing look, 'Oh Sherlock, John is a very troubled young man. Are you sure you want to do this? Maybe you should take some time and think about it as he suggested in his letter.'

'I don't _need_ to think about it!' Sherlock replied impatiently, '_what_ is there to think about?'

'This!' Mrs. Hudson cried out in her distress, as she waved her hands at his narrowed eyebrows, aggressive posture and fierce scowl. 'Recovery requires patience, sweetheart; like waiting and hoping for a flower to open.

_And sometimes no matter how much you want it, Sherlock, it may never happen._

'I do not see why he cannot recover here!' he said in a fierce whisper, as he looked down at her with an uncomfortable scowl. He was not at all pleased that Mrs. Hudson was giving voice to thoughts, he had been struggling with not ten minutes prior and had furiously deleted.

She looked up at him uncertainly; not knowing what to say to bring him comfort. Eventually, Sherlock's slim shoulders sagged in defeat, as his scattered thoughts crystallized into a single coherent idea that he had hoped would just go away if he ignored it long enough.

From his letter, it was apparent that John didn't think he was the right person to be his flat mate, but maybe the doctor was wrong. Maybe it was other way around. Who was to say that Sherlock was the right person that John needed as a friend in flat mate. Maybe in the long run, John would be better with someone more patient and more loving.

What did Sherlock, the freak and suspected psychopath know of such things, anyway?

He may not have the physical scars and troubles that John had, but Sherlock had many of his own. The battles that he fought with his own personal demons, as well as with the myriad of vicious, sadistic criminals that roamed throughout Europe, had left the detective just as broken and stained as John's war had left him. Different soldiers from different battles, but still broken in the same places.

With a motherly sigh, Mrs. Hudson enfolded his defeated body into a tight hug.

End of episode, 'The Study in Pink'

TBC


	18. Therapy

**Anote**: Our alternative reality (AU) story has now moved into the episode "**The Blind Banker**"

Chapter 18- **Therapy**

The store manager looked up happily as his door bell chimes rang. Help had finally arrived, and he hurried forward to meet the two new comers. 'Hulo, Mr. Holmes?'

The man in the long dark coat turned to look at him with such a fierce stare, that he badly wanted to retreat behind his counter. The look in the man's eyes was cold and expressionless; it was as if death had walked through the door to claim him.

'Where?!' Death barked sharply; looking darkly down at him as if he was an insect that was destined to be squashed, if he didn't answer the question appropriately.

The grocer pointed a shaking finger to a back room where the small doctor was resting.

Without another word the pale skinned apparition stalked past him.

'Don't mind him,' Lestrade reassured as he held out his hand, 'he's harmless. We appreciate your call. What happened here?'

By this time, they had also walked towards the back room. Lestrade looked on worriedly as Sherlock knelt infront of John, who was seated at a table staring vacantly out the window.

'John?' the slim detective called out gently, as he softly patted the man's arm with his gloved hand. 'Do you remember me; it's Sherlock…Sherlock Holmes.'

The blonde man said nothing.

Sherlock rocked back on his knees to study the man sitting before him in wide eyed alarm and his chest began to hurt, as he observed all the signs of neglect in John's appearance. It was clear that the doctor had stopped eating again.

Seeing John like this made the detective question his choice not to go after the doctor and 'drag' him back. Sherlock was sure he could have 'manipulated' the man to return to the flat. It was one of the things the detective did best, and he had been slowly nudging John past his fears, ever since they had met.

But Sherlock hadn't gone after him, which seemed to have been a critical error given present evidence.

The moment of indecision that had paralyzed the detective upon reading the man's note, had long passed. Instead, it was replaced with a curious desire to support John's extraordinarily difficult choice to turn away from the path he was on and seek another. For all his cynical views about humans in general, Sherlock was deeply impressed by John's strength of character as he made this bold step towards regaining control of his life.

The doctor was clearly a man of action, but this in itself made Sherlock doubt how effective snoozing on some psychologist's couch was going to be, as compared to _his_ brand of therapy where you immersed yourself in useful work. However at this point, Sherlock was willing to go along with whatever made John feel most comfortable.

That said, the slim detective intended to give the doctor a few weeks to find his feet, as they say, before he came to collect him. As he understood it, John wanted to be 'friends' in a fashion but he didn't want to be viewed as a helpless victim or charity case. Sherlock saw him as neither, but that was something the ex-army captain would have to realise on his own.

In the meantime, Sherlock had moved his loyal 'network' of street people and surrounded the veteran's hostel. Except for when John was in a closed room, there was never a time in the 15 days, 10 hours and 37 minutes since reading the doctor's note, that the small man was ever unguarded. As such, Sherlock and Lestrade had already been on their way to the shop, long before the proprietor had even called. Angelo had found all of this a bit extreme, but Sherlock was not willing to take any chances with the physical safety of his future flat mate, especially as it was his fault that John had disposed of his gun in the river. But had all his precautions been in vain? Had he waited too long to come for the doctor?

Sherlock forced these questions to the back of his mind. He couldn't afford to think like that. He had pulled John out of the quicksand of memories that had once traumatised him, and he could bloody well do it again!

'John, don't you know me?' the wavy haired man begged again in a whisper, trying to get some sort of response.

Lestrade could only stare in open mouthed shock at Sherlock's mate. They had only met once, but the Inspector was taken aback by John's scruffy, wild appearance.

'I'm not sure what happened,' the manager confided in a whisper, 'I turned around when he started attacking one of the chip and pin machines. Look it's alright…I had a brother who was in Iraq, so I understand. I just didn't want to put John out in the cold, as he doesn't appear to be doing too well today. Holmes' card was the only thing in his wallet. They're mates, right?'

As if in reply to the store keeper's question, John's fingers reached out, and curled tightly into the end of Sherlock's scarf as though it was a life line.

The detective exhaled in relief when the man's blue eyes slowly turned to focus on his face.

'You almost had me there for a minute,' Sherlock murmured anxiously, 'Therapy doesn't appear to suit you, my friend.'

The doctor smiled faintly at this understatement.

'Ha ha…you have jokes,' he remarked sarcastically in a feeble voice.

'What happened?' Sherlock asked, gesturing to the store behind them.

John shook his head in humiliation. 'I don't know. I thought this was working. This is really hard Sherlock. You can't know how hard this is.'

The detective stiffened in horror as John suddenly put his arms around his neck, and started to sob quietly. For someone who had once shouted at him to keep his hands to himself, the doctor was certainly a hugger. Awkwardly, the detective patted the small back.

'There, there...' Sherlock mumbled before he rolled his eyes at how foolish he sounded. Why was it that this sounded more sensible when his landlady did it?

'Sherlock,' the Inspector murmured in distress, 'I'll bring the car around. Let's get him to Mrs. Hudson; he's needs some looking after.'

'What?! I disagree completely!' the detective announced with a look of complete surprise, as though Lestrade's suggestion was the stupidest thing he had ever heard, 'I think it is I who require some looking after.'

The manager and the Inspector exchanged confused glances, as the two other men held a whispered conversation.

Suddenly Sherlock sprang up to his feet and buttoned his coat.

'Lestrade, take him where he needs to be,' the detective announced rudely as if the other man was his servant, 'don't look at him, don't talk to him, just drive.'

And then, with what appeared to be an abrupt after thought, Sherlock took off his scarf and wrapped it securely around John's neck before proceeding to dash out of the store, as if on important business.

Lestrade gawked at the door in shock before shaking his head in annoyance. Sherlock was impossible!

'Pardon me, what was that about?' John asked gently, as he walked up to Lestrade's side. 'Don't talk to him, don't look at him?'

The Inspector was surprised but pleased that the man was on his feet; his voice now steady and strong.

'Sherlock's still upset about how I dragged you out of you room at the hostel,' he confessed, 'Sorry about that.'

The doctor waved aside the apology. 'You were doing your job.'

After a moment, John looked across at him, 'why are you staring at me?'

Lestrade swallowed hard; Sherlock would have his head if he messed up again! 'Sorry Dr. Watson. I've never seen Sherlock walk off a case before; not ever.'

John's eyebrows knitted together in a fierce scowl, which looked _very_ familiar. 'He didn't walk off a case; he came to get reinforcements. Come man, we have an autopsy to supervise! Don't stand there gaping like an idiot…lead the way.'

TBC


	19. It is not a gift

**Anote**: I know this story is a bit different from my others. This is a bit of wish fulfillment on my part, as sometimes I really want Sherlock to treat John better than he does on a day to day basis.

Chapter 19- **It is not a gift**

John picked up his mobile as a text message from Sherlock came through.

_I'm outside, can I come in? -_ SH

With a look of surprise the small man turned around and promptly walked over, when he noticed the moving shadow just below the edge of the door.

'Why didn't you knock?' John remarked as he automatically peeked through the peep hole before undoing the locks.

The curly haired detective was standing in the dark, dingy corridor of his hostel, with a plain shoe box in hand.

'I didn't want to startle you,' Sherlock explained as a sudden happy smile flashed across his face, 'you shaved!'

With a rueful laugh, John caressed his clean jaw. 'Yes, when the corpse in the morgue looks better than you, it's a sign.'

'You look like a new man,' the detective congratulated him warmly, even as he was starting to get nervous at the mischievous look on John's face. 'Why are you smiling like that?'

'When Lestrade told Molly I was your friend,' the doctor explained with an impish grin, 'she couldn't do enough for me. She's the one who fixed me up. It made my evening to have a hot shave by such a pretty young lady. It would have been perfect if she could stop nattering on and on about you though. Sherlock is so wonderful…Sherlock is so smart. It was utterly nauseating. I think you have an admirer.'

The detective shifted his weight from one leg to the next.

'Really?' Sherlock tried to say in casual surprise, pretending that this was news to him.

'Clearly,' John deadpanned, 'Molly thinks the sun all but shines out of your…'

'Did you see the autopsy?!' Sherlock interrupted this rude sentence with a pleading look of desperation.

Even though he was still grinning gleefully at Sherlock's discomfort, John nodded his head as he leaned against the door frame, 'you were correct. The victim was dead long before he 'jumped off' the building. What do you make of that?'

Sherlock looked frustrated as he laid out the story. 'Revenge plot obviously. Office mate did him in and pushed him out a window to make it look like a suicide. The current state of murders are enough to bore me to tears; not one particle of originality in the entire lot of London's criminal element. Does no one take any pride in their work?!'

The doctor slowly shook his head in astonishment. He had never met anyone like Sherlock in his life.

'Can I talk to you?' the detective requested with a mild stammer, abruptly changing the topic. As John waved him in, Sherlock was startled to find that they were not quite 'alone'.

'Oh,' the detective murmured in surprise as he stared at the second hand chair, alongside John's work table.

Immediately, the doctor turned red in shame. He wasn't used to have company in his room.

Sherlock gestured with his gloved hand towards the set of clothes that he lent John two weeks ago, so that the doctor could have a shower at Baker Street. The garments were laid out as though the consulting detective was sitting in the chair.

'Don't forget to add my scarf,' Sherlock reminded him in an emotionless voice.

'Are you laughing at me?!' the small man snapped in anger and mortification, as he clenched his fists tightly together at his sides. For the life of him now, he didn't know why he was so happy when Sherlock showed up in the shop. The man had all the sensitivity of a billy goat!

'I am not laughing at you,' Sherlock corrected in a calm but serious voice, 'I have a skull I talk to on occasion. You didn't see it, because Mrs. Hudson took it away when she was cleaning.'

John looked stunned at this admission and he wracked his brain, trying to remember his introductory psychology.

'Why would you do that?' he asked worriedly, 'talk to the skull, I mean?'

Sherlock turned around in a distracting swirl of speed, 'I imagine, for the same reason you laid out my spare clothes liked this.'

Without waiting for a comment, the slim detective placed the shoe box in his arms and stepped back, 'For you.'

Properly distracted, John frowned down at this unexpected action, 'I don't want anything. I was happy to review the autopsy for you.'

'It is not a gift,' Sherlock insisted, 'it is more of a return. I've been meaning to do this before now…but…you know.'

John cracked open the box and looked down at the newly purchased revolver and an accompanying set of ammunition, all wrapped up in a bit of blue paper printed with little sailing boats.

The doctor nodded his head in understanding. 'Thanks and thanks for giving me some space. I needed to give it try on my own for awhile. You have to understand that when I came back from overseas, I really let myself go. I didn't care about anything or anyone. I had no reason to get any help.'

'Are you learning anything interesting in this…therapy?' Sherlock asked curiously, feeling oddly pleased that he had made such an impact in the man's life. People hugged him in the street all the time, claiming that the detective had changed the direction of their lives, but he never felt so much pleasure from his actions, as he did now.

John sighed as he put the box down on the table, 'I am learning loads; breathing, mediation, anger management…some days are just better than others.'

'What can I do to make this day better?' the detective asked eagerly, hoping to be able to add some more minutes on to his visit. He still hasn't worked out how to ask the man what he wanted to ask.

The doctor smiled gently up at him.

'Sherlock, it is not possible for the day to improve any further, now that you're here,' John said charmingly, in a throwback to the happy carefree young man who still lay under the skin of the scarred ex-army captain. 'It's really good to see you. I've been a little worried about what you've been getting up to.'

'Same here,' Sherlock murmured quietly, as John bustled around and removed the clothes from off the chair so that he could sit.

For a moment they sat and stared at each stupidly, until John laughed and with a wave of his hand he invited the other man to speak, 'you wanted to talk to me about something?'

Sherlock opened his mouth but no sound came out.

Of course, John raised an eyebrow at such hesitance. The detective was one of the most arrogant, self confident people he knew so this response was a little odd. Hoping to give him a minute to pull himself together, John excitedly cracked open his laptop.

'I made something for you in therapy,' he remarked a bit shyly as he accessed his account. 'I was always good at writing in school so I made a record of our…'

Suddenly, John sprung up from his chair as if he had been jabbed with a hot poker.

'Oh my giddy aunt! Five thousand hits!' he yelled out in horror as he pointed at the screen, 'People are reading this thing!'

The detective frowned at this bizarre reaction, and quickly moved forward to put himself in between John, and whatever was so dreadfully upsetting. Unfortunately he wasn't quick enough, as Watson grabbed his computer and closed it with a loud click.

'What's wrong, John?' Sherlock asked anxiously, as the man looked at him with wild eyes.

Gently Sherlock reached over and tried to pry the computer from the man's white knuckled grip, 'It's alright, let me see. Nothing will harm you when I am here.'

'You're going to be mad.' John protested as he tugged the device back to him. 'And then you will go away.'

The unexpected vulnerability revealed by the small doctor's words made Sherlock glance across at him in shock.

John really had no idea what humiliating lengths he was willing to go to, in order to get him to change his mind and return with him to Baker Street. Always, Sherlock found his skull useful to sharpen his focus, but in the last two weeks, the detective had discovered that it could no way compare to having John at his side; talking to him, worrying about him, yelling and waving his arms around whenever the doctor thought he had done something stupid or dangerous. It made him feel …well happy wasn't quite the right word…but it made him feel… something.

In truth, John didn't have to lay his clothes out in a chair and pretend to have him over for tea. Sherlock would gladly sit with him.

In the meantime, John was still clutching the laptop against his chest, staring at him worriedly as Sherlock's mind briefly wandered away. It was clear that the small man was looking to him for reassurance. Sherlock gulped quietly. This was quite out of his comfort zone, so to speak. What should he say?

'Keep it simple,' Mrs. Hudson had advised as she artistically arranged the revolver and ammunition in some spare wrapping paper in one of empty Sherlock's shoe boxes, 'don't make promises you can't keep, and don't yell!'

'I'm not leaving here without this present you made for me,' Sherlock murmured quietly.

John gave him a pained look. 'Even if you get upset, promise you won't leave as yet. You just got here!'

And as if he was a gentleman of old, Sherlock solemnly clapped his right hand over his heart, 'I promise that even if I get upset, I won't storm off and leave.'

Immediately the small man settled down with an embarrassed but relieved look; seemingly reassured that Sherlock meant what he said. It was a good thing that the detective was so 'peculiar' in own fashion or John's face would have been so red, that one could have fried an egg on it. Was he really just pleading with the man not to leave, like a child afraid of the dark?

'What is this?' Sherlock asked in bewilderment as the blog reloaded, 'A study in pink?'

John watched the man carefully, looking for any signs of disgust as Sherlock's intelligent grey eyes zoomed through the article at top speed.

'Alright there, Sherlock?'

Finally, the detective looked up with a bright, brittle smile.

'Thank you,' Sherlock lied enthusiastically, 'this is quite wonderful.'

For some reason, John found the man's attempt to spare his feelings to be oddly sweet and funny, and after a moment of open mouthed surprise, he started laughing. His warm, infectious laugh soon started Sherlock up, and eventually the two men doubled over the small work table as they giggled uncontrollably like a pair of hyenas. It felt good to laugh like this, as if they were little children. It was quite a refreshing little break from the normal routine of all the horrors that plagued their adult lives.

All in all, even though Sherlock didn't like to see his deductions so sensationalized, he secretly approved of all the reader's comments who gushed about his sheer wonderfulness as a super crime solver.

**TBC**


	20. Tea at the hostel part 1

******Anote**: I might not be as diligent with future posts as i have a bit of a writer's block or something happening. Thanks in advance for sticking with the story.

**Chapter 20- Tea at the hostel part 1**

John sat on the window sill, and studied Sherlock's absorbed faced as he enjoyed all the reviewer's remarks from the blog. The detective appeared to be genuinely stunned, at the hundred or so positive commendations that had been left for him.

On some level though, the doctor wasn't really surprised.

The ex-army captain had noticed that except for Greg, Sherlock didn't get along with any one else at the Yard. John hadn't wanted to say anything at the time when all the 'abuse' was being hurled at Sherlock, because he wasn't sure what was going on. The small man hoped this situation had resolved itself. Sherlock was a great man and deserved their respect if nothing else.

In any case, the doctor was quite prepared now to shove anyone into a wall, if they insulted his friend.

_My friend._

John looked down into the tea leaves swirling in the bottom of his army mug. When had that happened? When had Sherlock snuck past his defenses and set up his tiny campsite in his heart? How did he feel about this?

'Sherlock, drink your tea,' he called out to the detective for the third time in the last half hour.

Like a robot, the slim young man picked up the cooling cup near his elbow, took a sip, made a face and put it back down as he typed in replies to reviewer questions.

John smiled faintly; glad to see the other man so caught up in the unexpected extras associated with his 'gift'. It had been a genuine pleasure to write about their adventures.

His therapist had seemed a bit bewildered by it all when she read the blog, but she nodded and told him that the consulting detective appeared to be an interesting chap. Then, John had made the mistake of telling her that he didn't like it when Sherlock convinced him to do things he didn't want to.

She had gotten the wrong idea immediately and even after he had explained himself more clearly, she still looked doubtful.

'John,' she said seriously, 'Just like the differently-abled, war veterans are a prime target for exploitation. I have seen it happen so many times. Be cautious with your new friend.'

He had been so furious with her poisonous words that he had resolved never to return for another session.

Eventually he calmed down enough to go again. She was right to caution him; it was her job and a man who couldn't face the full reality of his situation was never going to any better.

John glanced at his watch.

His room was small, but if Sherlock wanted to stay the night he didn't mind. The detective would just have to kip on the floor or on a chair. However, this wouldn't really be John's first choice, because the hostel was not a pleasant place to try and rest; not if you weren't heavily sedated with alcohol or other pharmaceuticals.

And right on cue, a blood curdling scream tore through the silence, just above their heads.

Sherlock shot straight out of his chair in alarm.

'If you react every time someone screams in their sleep here, you will never sit down,' John remarked mildly as he continued to sip his tea, clearly accustomed to such terrible outbursts.

'This happens all night?' Sherlock remarked curiously, appalled that John lived like this. 'How peculiar.'

'I don't find it peculiar,' John said with a twisted smile, 'because sometimes that's me; screaming my head off like a bloody lunatic.'

'Yes,' Sherlock replied softly, 'I know.'

The detective closed the lap top, picked up his cold tea and walked over to join the doctor at his window sill.

TBC


	21. Tea at the hostel part 2

**Anote**: thanks for all the encouragement. you are all the most wonderful people.

Chapter 21**- Tea at the hostel part 2**

'Do you want to talk about what's on your mind?' John prodded, as the other man leaned against the wall and studied his face, in a way that was a bit unnerving.

'I do, but I sense your mood had shifted,' Sherlock remarked, as he turned the matter over in his head.

The doctor drained his cup, 'I won't worry about that if I were you…go on and have a go.'

'I read your letter,' Sherlock began plunging straight into it now, 'If I figure out the rent conundrum, will you reconsider being my flatmate?'

'What?' the small man cried in surprise, 'you haven't taken on a new flat mate as yet? What happened?'

'Clearly I haven't,' the detective replied testily, 'do answer my question.'

'I don't understand what you mean,' the doctor answered with a flush of anger, wondering what new scheme was simmering in his colleague's hyperactive brain, 'I don't want anyone's charity.'

'You can view it anyway you want,' the detective responded blandly, seemingly oblivious to the man's aggressive tone, 'but I _need_ an assistant who I can count on. I find it hugely inconvenient that you live across town. I would consider it a personal favour if you reconsider.'

'Sherlock,' John said patiently as he massaged his temples, 'I am flattered that you think of me as a person to count on, but this won't work. You need to find a permanent flat mate who can pay rent.'

The detective closed his eyes and took in a deep shuddering breath. 'If I start charging for my services, I can cover the entire rent. Money is not a problem. Naturally, this is one of the areas you will be in charge of. I may murder someone if I had to negotiate a fee like a seller of tomatoes in the market.'

'You don't normally charge?' John spluttered incredulously, eyeing Sherlock's expensive coat, watch, shoes and tailor made suit. 'Don't tell me…. you've assisted a dress store owner in the past.'

'Several in fact,' Sherlock replied, opening his eyes with a small confused scowl, as John's teasing remark sailed straight over the top of his curly head, 'why do you ask?'

'This is the most insane idea I have ever heard,' John grumbled.'How do you come up with these mad suggestions?'

In response to his skepticism, Sherlock flipped a personal cheque infront his face, 'Five thousand pound consultancy fee. Not all of my clients can pay but some can. Problem at the bank last night…a very unusual break in.'

Astounded, John leaned over and snatched the cheque out of his hand, 'This could cover the rent for months!'

'Quite, I told you that money was not a problem,' Sherlock reminded him in a calm voice, 'John what do you say? This is what I want, for you and for me. I am not so good at this sort of thing, but here it is.'

The doctor turned his head away, as he slouched against the wall and absently memorised the ghastly wall paper of his room.

'Don't think, just say yes,' Sherlock drawled in a casual sort of way, as if he was asking the man to do nothing more than buy a newspaper.

'This had nothing to do with rent,' John informed him quietly after a long moment had passed.

'I know that too,' the detective replied just as softly.

The two men stood there in silence; one hopefully expectant and the other heart sore and completely bewildered. John could not understand why Sherlock would not leave him alone with his pain. The doctor had given him a way out and still the man had returned for more. Why did the detective want to be dragged down by all his problems? Nobody else seemed that interested.

'Sherlock, why me? Why do want _me_ so bad? ' John pleaded in a loud voice; seeking to understand this strange relationship they had fallen into.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in sudden irritation. 'What is the point?! You won't believe me so my words are meaningless.'

'Your words are never meaningless,' John remarked tactfully, in that gentle way of his that endeared him to all.

'The truth is never meaningless,' Sherlock corrected impatiently with his usual _lack _of tack, 'and the truth is that you are brave, intelligent and kind. The truth is that you are an exceptional human being and that is why I want to be your friend. I don't understand why I have to tell you these things. Don't you know all of this already?!'

John stared up at him in stupefied silence. People didn't talk so honestly to each other anymore, even though perhaps they should.

'Come John, and bring your gun,' Sherlock cried out suddenly, as he buttoned up his heavy coat and sprinted for the door. 'We can figure out living arrangements later. There is an urgency about this new case that we can not ignore. We have a missing banker to find!'

The doctor, half laughing and half huffing in exasperation, scrambled madly for his coat, keys and brand new firearm, 'here we go again!'


End file.
